Author: foxtongue

There was a Harry Potter theme party at Alex & Neriads last night that Ethan and I attended. There were some people there that I knew already, albiet not really. One man, Devon, had caught my atttention a long time ago by sketching me once. I had regretfully lost his e-mail address in the Grand Losing My Religion(contactbook) Disaster of early Aught-whatever. Now it seems we are all in contact again, thanks be to the internet.

I’ve been meaning to post this, though forgettting. It was brought up last night.

Rat Brain in a Dish Flies Plane Simulator

A University of Florida scientist has created a living “brain” of cultured rat cells that now controls an F-22 fighter jet flight simulator.
…
For the recent project, Thomas DeMarse, a University of Florida professor of biomedical engineering, placed an electrode grid at the bottom of a glass dish and then covered the grid with rat neurons. The cells initially resembled individual grains of sand in liquid, but they soon extended microscopic lines toward each other, gradually forming a neural network — a brain — that DeMarse says is a “living computational device.”

The brain then communicates with the flight simulator through a desktop computer.

Hunter S Thompson : Fear & Loathing 2004.

in The Rolling Stone on the Bush/Kerry election.

………..Some people say that George Bush should be run down and sacrificed to the Rat gods. But not me. No. I say it would be a lot easier to just vote the bastard out of office on November 2nd.

*****

BULLETIN
KERRY WINS GONZO ENDORSMENT; DR. THOMPSON JOINS DEMOCRAT IN CALLING BUSH “THE SYPHILLIS PRESIDENT”
“Four more years of George Bush will be like four more years of syphilis,” the famed author said yesterday at a hastily called press conference near his home in Woody Creek, Colorado. “Only a fool or a sucker would vote for a dangerous loser like Bush,” Dr. Thompson warned. “He hates everything we stand for, and he knows we will vote against him in November.”

Thompson, long known for the eerie accuracy of his political instincts, went on to denounce Ralph Nader as “a worthless Judas Goat with no moral compass.”

“I endorsed John Kerry a long time ago,” he said, “and I will do everything in my power, short of roaming the streets with a meat hammer, to help him be the next President of the United States.”

*****

Which is true. I said all those things, and I will say them again. Of course I will vote for John Kerry. I have known him for thirty years as a good man with a brave heart — which is more than even the president’s friends will tell you about George W. Bush, who is also an old acquaintance from the white-knuckle days of yesteryear. He is hated all over the world, including large parts of Texas, and he is taking us all down with him.

Bush is a natural-born loser with a filthy-rich daddy who pimped his son out to rich oil-mongers. He hates music, football and sex, in no particular order, and he is no fun at all………….

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I love the kids in chat. This is the sort of things the better ones post.

dark humour

My relations with the world are bordering on peculiar. Nameless seduction the same day I send off my lucky number six. Today I got a call from down south. A welcome voice from the soulless city with no sky. This one’s addicted darling, sticky on my skin like heroin honey. Your eyes when they open are full of stars. He wants me to move for him. Come down to the land of plastic people. Palm trees always strike me as slightly sad. Over used in the 80’s to represent glamour, they’re reaching thinly for the stars exactly like the dieting hopefuls swarming in high heels around the symbolic trunks. Somehow I maintain a precarious balance. If it was for longer than half a year, I might do it.

I woke up to discover a ferret wrapped around my belly. I closed my eyes against the world and focused on denying the tickle of warm fur. It didn’t really work. Little scratchy claws, moving with our breathing. It was too much. I gently picked him up and shifted him to the pillow, losing my dreaming in the process. Now I’m working and feel like I’m hours behind on my sleep. Exhaustion in the marrow of my bones. I want to crawl into my empty bed and fall into darkness. This must be what regret feels like. A heaviness in the centre of all the limbs, pulling you down into the pit of your belly.

It’s snowing in Calgary right now. Flakes the size of teacups. The hill next to the studio’s been closed and there’s talk of taking crazy carpets and sliding down the street. I wish I were there. Fairytale cold and wet. I could borrow mittens off Dean and get my boy in the head with a snowball. Giggling to glitter.

Snow here would be nice too. Looking out the window to a pale fluttering world. Frost on my window like I haven’t seen since I was a kid. Ferns etching themselves on the glass in crystal cold. I miss the cocaine dusting of snow blowing across the street ahead. I miss the light.

Our cities are so isolated from eachother in winter. In Vancouver we barely think of it, but in our own way, we’re just as snowed in trapped as the rest of the country. Our settlements spread out, practically one city to a province. Huge spreads of empty snowdeep land, dangerous to cross. The mountains will be almost impassable in maybe a month and the prairies only death for the small car. Like entropy overtaking Canada, everything slowing until it barely moves at all.

Up on the highway it’s almost blizzard weather. Semi-trucks are jackknifing across the Coquihalla. Here, there is the faintest beginnings of our wind.

Theater Under the Gun was fabulous. Five shows, which only got better as the night went on. I couldn’t breathe for laughter. Theater companies from all over the Lower Mainland are given inspiration packages, each with a sound clip, an image, a quote, and a prop. They’re given fourty-eight hours to create a show, rehearsal, costumes, and all. This is the first time in a few years that I haven’t been personally involved with any of the shows, so I can vouch that usually there is very little sleep involved in the creative process and an awful lot of drinking. The plays created are practically always brilliant comedy. Originality smacking you with the knee-slapping wit of Tanya Harding.

It opened slow with a Native American Group who threw together a rather uninspired look at corporate cubicle work. Next was a bitterly cruel clown with two terrible children. “You want to know why you’re adopted?” “We’re, um, special?” “No! Nobody wanted you!” This is where the show starting picking up, (though no-one, not no-one can beat the failed cirque du soliex clown from a few years ago. That show was made of greatness). The third group had the first political send-up that I think has ever showed up at Theater Under the Gun. BushWhacked: regarding the toppling of the Land of Moron by our hero, The Crudest Woman in Whalley. The Land of Moron has spread across the planet. “Dear citizens, we have finally subdued the cruel dangerous country of Switzerland! No longer will the chocolate eaters threaten our freedom.” Her and her redneck husband smoke pot and swear their way to a secret lab to kill the alien/bush hybrid baby that is the world’s greatest danger. It was just what it sounds like, though littered with more crude profanity. Dialogue to make you cringe.

During intermission I made the acquaintance of the little girl sitting next to me. She was done up pretty in a bright pink dress with her feet swinging under her seat. I remember being in the Cultch at her age. Music and films, but very little theatre. My mum wouldn’t have taken me to something like this, my mum brought me to experimental jazz. The girls mother was very kind and all three of us made fast friends. David Bloom was there, but we don’t know what to say to eachother really. I’m like the Theater Widow, with an empty seat at my side. I had better luck with Chris MacGreger and Trevor Found. It was good to see them and catch up a little. I’d almost forgotten that it was their show.

The stage was littered with props while we sat waiting. Tinfoil covered chairs, bowls with whisks and chocolate, and three haridryers on long christmas light strings. We spun stories of what could be coming up next. A boy came up to me then, asking if we knew eachother. Turned out he had been at The One Man Lord Of the Rings months ago. Poor lad had been caught talking to Robin. I was surprised at how few people were in attendance. Not even the floor was filled. There were gaps in the front two rows. It would be a pity and a shame if this were to die. It’s Theater Under The Gun’s seventh year.

The show that came up after intermission fully lived up to it’s weird collection of props. Three sisters dealing with their daddy coming home from prison. Wacky girls, messed up and beautiful, making poisoned pudding to welcome him back. It was stylish work and the use of props was extremely well done. The silver chairs made it a salon where the three lived and worked. They loved their daddy, they put peroxide in the pudding. They put barbital, and bleach, then ate it up themselves. Sweet and dark and bouncy, the perfect essence of the event. I was attacked by flying hair clips and the woman one seat over caught a lab coat in the face.

The last show was stark in contrast but no less funny. The line they had was “I understand what you’re saying but the dancing still confuses me”. Their image was Death climbing a mountain to a meditating man in a loincloth with long hair. They did exactly that, but with lights up to reveal a skinny man with an over the top wig of golden curls reaching almost to his waist. In each hand he has a tiny doll baby. Death groaningly arrives and they begin to argue. In the end, it’s decided that the ascetic will take his place. To illustrate what exactly it is that death does, disco lights suddenly flick on and a description defying dance routine begins to a heavy beat. If there were nightclubs where people would dance like that, I would live there. Toss in a few gags afterward and the traditional ending and it was perfect. The audience was slow on applause for the laughter.

I thought about hanging about a little, but really couldn’t see the point. I slipped backstage to congratulate people on a show well done and then walked out. I had Raven to go to and nothing keeping me at the Cultch but some people who would feel slightly obligated to be my friend. On my way out I fell into step with the boy who talked to me at intermission. Spur of the moment I invite the him and his friend over for tea and they agree. I can only dearly hope I didn’t come across as someone too odd. My house is full of boxes and my room is littered with AV gear, a ferret wandering over everything. They’re both around age 16 but well on their way into theater. Maybe if I was lucky, I talked them out of it.

Raven was fun, if not terribly interesting. A pub night for leather women, everyone seeming to know people but me. Completely what I deserve for showing up to an event for a scene I’m not part of. Once again, I was counting off spanking for people and sitting ni a corner, not really talking with anyone. I got home late, tired enough for the brain to start clicking off. I was glad of the people I did meet, friends and family and one or two new.

Two in the morning is not the best time to remember one works the next day. Bit of a startling moment, that. As foolish as dancing in the middle of a pub frequented entirely by leather women. Downstairs was Wild Cherry Boogie and upstairs was Lovesong by the Cure, both mixing with Ancient and Justified from the jukebox in the back. Together they somehow melded into something fabulous to dance to. I stopped when I realized people were watching. Well, no, I stopped when there was talk of putting me on a table to make it a show.

though rain came to talk to me and she’s pretty damned cute

That would have been a bit much. Bad enough that I go to a lesbian thing and accidently i hope not pick up a boy. Funny – a friend of friends, known him forever but I suppose he’s just ‘noticing’ me now. I am sensing a pattern here. Some nights – just kill me already, but I’ll go if he calls for coffee. Nice folk are handy, especially severly top sadistic folk. If nothing else, they can get your kitchen clean. Hah. Bonus if they’re cuddly.

Sorry – I’m drifting into humour that likely doesn’t come across so well on the page. I suppose I really should have picked up some food. Night world. Let me dream someone into my city.

• I should never be allowed unsupervised in a fabric shop.
• writing down “I am attending X” is a good way to guarantee a change of plan
• if I left my hat at your house please tell me. it would be nice to have back
• Ray is making me lights. Ray needs to be made cookies.

Found out it’s Theater Under The Gun again. I’m vacillating whether I go tonight or not. It could be work, it will be friends. However, my evening is already rolled out gorgeous in front of me. I’m expecting an intricate dance of favourite people capturing me into the sway of raunchy film and raunchy conversation. My hesitation is likely foolish. After all, in spite of the fact that I may likely be paying for his ticket, a golden haired utitili-kilt boy will be at the movies. There is no certainty that there will be anyone who remembers me as my own person at The Cultch tonight.

As I type this, I find that the Sick & Twisted folk have bailed this evening. Choice made.

Handy, as heading out to the Ridge Theater in fetish wear could be less than comfortable on this chilly day. There is only the slightest modicum of warmth trapped by a fishnet shirt and a thai silk wrap. Perhaps the same unit of heat trapped encased by closing ones eyelids. This way I get to walk home the few blocks from the theater and change before braving the cold. Soon there will be ice out there. Roads slick with slippery black, death to drive on. The wind hasn’t started yet, but it will. Whistling like a killer in the hallway leading to your bedroom the night you’re half asleep and disbelieving dreaming.  

Note to self: Do not go through the Sent Letters folder today. Just. Don’t. Thank you ~ the Management

Focus lit clearing of mindscapes dreaming. I hear music calling, your voice on the air. Look to myself, swing spectrum angle of realization pretty. And she waits. There is grass under her bare feet and her skirts are speckled from the light rain that falls from the cloudless sky. It’s allowed here. Everything is. Talk her from here, take her from here. One finger beckoning. Shadows flit past and towards her, melting away when you approach. This is the time. This is music calling. Come into the fire and breathe.

The Boy Robin and I are off today Halloweening. We’re going to slum it in the classiest way possible. Giant grease-mongering-the-way-they-should-be burgers at Save-On-Meats on Hastings. Don’t listen to the peanut gallery, they’re one of Vancouver’s best kept secrets. You walk in to this giant butchershop in the scuzziest neighbourhood we as a city have to offer and wend your way to the back, where there are yellow formica top counters with little retro fifties stools screwed into the floor to sit on. Park yourself down and when you order your burger, ask for a little saucer. The trick is that you need to squeeze the dripping meatwads of grease before you eat them. Otherwise that pool of yellow in the saucer would be dripping down your arms, no matter how fastidious an eater you tend to be. And Robin? Robin is certainly not fastidious. I wouldn’t even venture to call him tidy.

After our generous helpings of greasy death, we’re going over to Dressew. Me for reflective tape and netting, and Robin hopefully to find a sword and shield. He is going as Link from Zelda. For some ineffable reason, I’m approving of this. Don’t hold it against me unless you also have chocolate. It’s better than his other ideas, believe me. I’m going to be picking up some black industrial garbage bags as well. Instead of cloth, I’m calling with tape and plastic. I’m going to see how much I can have finished between arriving home and heading out to meet up with Angus for Spike & Mike’s Sick & Twisted. The lack of sewing machine is going to be a bit irritating, but perhaps some kind twist of fate will drop one at my door this weekend.

Tonight will be fun as well. I received a personal invite to the Raven opening tonight. I don’t know how I manage to end up with these special mentions when I’m so very uninteresting, but hey, there you go. I borrowed fetishy things off Alistair before he hopped in the cab this morning, so I should be partially set. I cheat every month for SinCity, no kinkster I. One of these days, just to make life easier, I’ll have to get one of the PVC dresses that everyone and their sister has, but maybe not. I can live with safety pin clothing for a little while yet.

When the hell did I get so submissive? My spikes and claws are retracting, surrender emphasizing need. It’s confusing and unexpected, redefining my breath. My language is being softly taken from my teeth. Words taken letter by letter from my open mouth, each one a precious gift I need to clothe my thoughts. Purple ink dripping off my tongue to stain your skin with bloody trails of need. The palest pink.

I have faith in this at least. I have solid warmth melting in me like wax in an old egyption wig. It scents my day with musk. With you and what you do to me. Recieve litany of passion playing. Send the dares and agreements strong. We shake for this. We ask the world for mercy, but we give none. Part of me knows this is even. Part of me knows I’m more drenched in freedom. I wonder how long we will survive.

I want to.